The Family Business Leaves No Room For Cranes (or Crazies)
by BleedingHeartsoftheWorldUnite
Summary: There may not be any honor among thieves, but in Gotham there is blood, and lots of it. Just an idea I'm playing with, but if enough people like it, I just might continue. Crane x OC, rating subject to change (high T, low M). Reviews GREATLY appreciated!
1. Victor Zsasz

_**Prologue**_ **: Victor Zsasz**

She should have returned by now. Hour late as the smoldering refuse melted into the overcast sky above the crooked city and bled into the distant iron pinpricks of stars, the thought disquieted him. Even at his age, Victor Zsasz was not one to unsettle easily. Gotham was a dangerous city, everyone knew that, and yet she had insisted that she would be fine out there, that her switchblade and smile would be enough; he knew better though, even before hitting his teens. Embeth may have been the elder of the two, but it was apparent that had their parents been any sort of decent guardians, he wouldn't have felt it necessary to insist that she just refrain from seeing to her business until morning. Though if that had been the case, things might have been different...

Stationed ever so patiently at the beaten kitchen window as he waited for the slightest sign of his sister's approach, knees beginning to grow numb against the unyielding wood, young Victor acted the sentry and peered outside to the rumbling late-night traffic once more. Not the worst neighborhood yet a far cry from the best, the boy's wide brown eyes could clearly make out the shape of a large man dragging an overripe trash bag in his wake, something wet and dark trailing behind. Either that was a truly amateur mistake in a city with virtually no rules, or else the man was just that confident in what he had done. A short ways down the block, just passed the weed-infested stop sign that had been tagged by three rival gangs, one of Gotham's supposed finest was engaged in illicit activity with what appeared to be a minor, though from the distance and glare of the tacky laundromat neon overhead, it was possible it was only a costume. In the bleak distance beyond that a car backfired, and even further out in the sea of sickness and corruption there was no mistaking the final wails of a pathetic death as some sap was dealt with. Informative as that all might have been, it meant nothing to him as he strained his ears for one voice in particular, alert for her cry or shout, even the horrendously whistled first movement of Beethoven's butchered Moonlight Sonata, which was a personal favorite.

Lowering his hand from the drafty frame so that the musty mustard drapes fell back into place, the boy could only scowl deeper as he resolved to go track-down his wayward kin. Mind already two steps ahead, he knew that the first thing he would need would be a means of protection, so he turned to the sparsely decorated kitchen; flickering almost instantly to the cutlery, his eyes came to rest on the finely-honed steel, so razor sharp in his hand and cruel against soft flesh. It was a good start, but against a gun he knew that it would prove prudent to pack more than just a blade, so the boy grabbed the bone-handled utensil almost as carelessly as a teen would reach for the telephone, continuing on to the extra room his father had so thoughtfully given to himself for a private office to escape from the rest of the family. In the end it had done him and their mother little good when the kids decided that it was time to give 'play time' a new meaning, but at the moment that was neither here nor there.

Stalking passed a row of what appeared at first glance to be dismembered mannequin parts, the putrid, rotting stench in the room coming back with a veritable vengeance, he paused at the farthest corner of the room and ripped a bloodied sheet off of a sleek oak desk. Tossing it aside to be dealt with later, Victor gazed almost fondly down at the items scattered across the top of the table, taking a deeply sadistic joy in the memories and knowledge that he kept a much more entertaining workspace than anyone else. Bare fingers brushing across the cool metal set into the wood, the wolf in lamb's guise slid open the drawer as easily as the razor opened flesh, muscle, and vein, extracting an older model M1911. There was a good feeling in handling a knife, a feeling of raw power and pounding adrenaline, but guns weren't that bad in his mind, though at that point his experience had been strictly limited to handguns.

Were it anyone else that had gone missing, frankly Victor wouldn't have cared in the slightest, but Embeth was different - the only person that had yet to fail him, as well as being the only person that he could be himself with, his sister was the sole thing he cared about in this miserable world of adults. A great big sister, she would always drop whatever she was doing to play with him whenever he wanted, and when he was scared, she would be the one to comfort him. When he had made good on a threat and killed his classmate's dog, she had helped him bury the body without a single pointless question or moment of panic - she had just looked at him, nodded, snapped the dog's neck again for good measure, and helped him bury the beast in the sweater she had stolen from some upper-class snob. Embeth would do anything for him.

And he would do anything for her...

* * *

 **A/N:**

This is just a little something I'm putting out to test the waters, so I'd really appreciate it if anyone reading this would review and leave me their thoughts! Yes, I realize that Victor probably didn't have a sibling, though if he did my nonexistent money would be on them either having a less-than-great relationship, or else the sibling is dead. Or most probably both. Honestly I'm totally grasping at straws with the back story of his upbringing, just crafting what will work for my idea and weaving in MY opinion of what could have been. Note I say mine. And no, I haven't read the comics (I've only the internet for that, and anyways I'm new to the whole DC scene). Rated for paranoia and potential plots...


	2. Jonathan Crane

**_Chapter One_ : Jonathan Crane**

Fear, it was everywhere. Feeding into every last liquid drop that gushed through the plastic arteries connected to the IV that sustained his frail form, seeping into the very bloodstream as his outward health recovered from the shock and near-failure of his final inoculation. Inescapable, it occupied nearly every corner of his mind and left him screaming night and day. Overdose near fatal, the scrawny brunette was left unable to communicate on a level that any of the hospital staff could see, yet he could still hear what was going on around him, time gradually returning a semblance of sight. As the five senses strengthened around the core of Jonathan's consciousness, it became ever more apparent that his constant state of terror was less than favorable for the nurses and doctors; being a superfluous source of disappointment and disgust for others was by far nothing new for him.

A natural target for his peers for his awkwardly lank frame alone, the silver-lining was that his father - regardless of what his faults had been - would do what was in his power for his boy, though many a time the child had wondered if it was not an act to throw off the scent of the monster lurking below. Verbally Gerald Crane made it no secret that he loved his only son, and yet over and again the teen felt as if all his old man ever did was remind him of all that they had lost: surely in his own mind he saw what he was doing and saying as the best thing, as reassuring and the norm, but the way that Jonathan saw it, things didn't quite match up. He tried to tell his father that he didn't want to do it, that he wasn't afraid the way that his dad thought he was, but as always it was 'if you love me, you'll trust me and do as I say'. In the end, it felt as if the biologist had taken over the man... Thinking of the fact that he would never see his father again, that because of the old man he himself was here in this fluctuating realm of hell, a greater part of him began to doubt that his father remembered what it meant to be a father, that he was his son and not just some test subject or something. As for his mother... It was growing more and more difficult to recall what she even looked like, let alone anything about her...

But perhaps...

For just a moment as he lay awake in his cold rectangular bed, listening to the steady beating and bleeping of the machines as the readouts quickened with the newfound racing of his heart, he pondered if perhaps the scarecrow was not a tormentor but a sign, a protector even. Looking at the situation objectively as a scientist or psychologist should, it easily could have been seen as the birth of madness to consider that avenue; however, as the boy had fallen helplessly to the base of the crude straw ward - horrifying and scarring as the trauma had been on his psyche - that was the moment he had been delivered. Safe and sound, he knew in the deepest, darkest pits of his heart that he would never be quite the same. Though hadn't that opportunity came and passed when he had been born a Crane? Regardless of that quandary, there was some small part that also knew the scarecrow had never truly harmed him, that its presence had continued to shield him when the detective that killed his father had come snooping back for a hopeful follow-up, or perhaps the visit was to assuage his own guilty conscience. In fact, were it not for the apparition that haunted his eyes alone and left him totally incapacitated, that cop would have demanded answers, Jonathan could see it in his eyes as he played everything back in his mind.

 _"That poor boy," scrubs clashing horribly with the revolting pity in her face, the nurse frowned in the direction of the bed as the doctor informed the newest staff member that Crane's current damaged state was potentially permanent, "but once the funding runs out, then what will we do with him? Pull the plug?" Twitching the end of his right index finger, Jonathan would have screamed for a different reason if he had the power, determined that he was was so much more stronger than any of them believed him to be._

 _Whatever the doctor had told her next was immaterial, save for one very important thing that stuck out,"...That depends on who'll bid higher. If the Dollmaker is interested, and frankly this case is anything but ordinary, he'll probably get shipped out that way. If not, probably Arkham. Detective Gordon said that this kid might have been an accessory to several murders, but even if that's not the case not many places will want to hold on such a special case, so he'll likely get shuffled along until he winds up there." The man shook his head, half disgusted, half fed up with all the hours he had had to endure, "Gotham needs a proper medical facility, not a dumping grounds for rejects."_

 _Wagging her head, the nurse seemed to agree, "Guess he's just another number in the database, not first and far from the last. Truth be told, this all reminds me of the Zsasz case a few years back..."_

In many ways young Jonathan knew that his father would have rejected this as a success, but as the teen was still breathing, technically at any rate, all was not utterly lost. Bit by bit, agonizing second by second, he was slowly regaining what originally could have been compared to coherent thought, and now he was even nearing a point of progress he could mark as nearing the dizzying road to recovery. Feet not quite able to support himself just yet, he could still make out a familiar shape in the gloom, a skeletal-thin hand shedding a creaking lantern over to the first road marker on that journey. It was far from orthodox, but it worked... Fear had shown him the true path.

* * *

 **A/N:**

First things first, I'd like to thank **shadychef** for the review! More than grateful for it, I must say I found it quite lovely, so thank you again very kindly! Really I encourage anyone and everyone to speak up, because I am always listening ^^

Secondly, this is a bit after the end of "The Scarecrow", though I'm not sure how far along since I don't know what season two is planning on cooking up! For the most part I don't think it'll be too big an issue, but I'm the kind of person that usually likes to be thorough with that kind of thing.

Thirdly... I feel as if there was a good deal of things I wanted to say, but honestly I forgot. Well if they come up, I'll try to address them as best I can.


End file.
